


clandestine

by hellbeast



Series: i'll never forget you (this is my only joy) [3]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Dissidia Duodecim: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Barely Canon Compliant, Gen, Nobody Expects the Turk Inquisition, Tseng Is The Deus Ex Machina We Deserve, Tseng Laughs In the Face of Your Mediocre Scheming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 23:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6170428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellbeast/pseuds/hellbeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>After wandering around the immediate area for half an hour while waiting for his suit jacket to dry—and looting every treasure chest he comes across—Reno finally runs into somebody.</p>
  <p>“Oh what the fuck,” he sighs.</p>
  <p>“Somebody” is about his height and absurdly pretty—like, <em>Sephiroth</em>-pretty—and well, <em>maybe</em> his height, it’s kinda hard to tell, what with the <em>floating</em>. And the crop top. And the… monkey tail?</p>
  <p>“What’s this?” Somebody asks, with the faintest accent, sounding like Rufus when he’s being even more of an obnoxious jackass than usual, “Another one of Cosmos’ peons?”</p>
  <p>“I swear to Gaia,” Reno makes a pointed jab with his mag rod, “that if this is one of those fucking… Renaissance Fairs or whatever, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill Rude.”</p>
  <p>Somebody laughs, pretty and high, and then throws a giant ball of white light at Reno’s head.</p>
</blockquote>Or, the Turks crash the party.
            </blockquote>





	clandestine

**Author's Note:**

> uh, warning for a lot a cursing, if that kinda thing bothers you. reno curses like i curse, which is to say, _so fuckin much_

Reno wakes up beneath a snow drift.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” he whines, voice muffled by the snow. He can feel it soaking through his suit—his _new_ suit, damnit—and he begrudgingly pushes himself up to his knees.

Oddly enough, even though there’s snow, it’s pretty mild out in… wherever he is. He has no idea where he is, he realizes. He’d originally thought Northern Crater or something, but this is definitely not the Western Continent because, well...

For twenty feet all around him, there’s snow and lightly frosted grass. He can see his breath condensing. The wet suit is making it even more uncomfortable.

 _Thirty_ feet out, a huge plain spreads as far as he can see, with wheat grass over here and water over there. It’s all very quaint and meteorologically improbable and very, very unfamiliar.

“Tseng is gonna _kill_ me.”

* * *

Okay, this? This is confusing and annoying as hell. Last he remembers, he was leaving Seventh Heaven. Tifa sometimes makes a fuss and charges Turks double or triple—and, okay, yes she definitely has a reason to—but even so, the food is decent and the booze is good. He remembers, he and Rude were there shootin’ the shit and they left at like… ass o’clock, barely before sunrise. Neither of them threw up in the alleyway because Turks can hold their liquor, but Reno has the vague, mortifying thought that Tifa didn't kick them out because Rude probably said something he'll regret. Tifa accrues blackmail like old pipes accrue rust; far too quickly for anyone's comfort.

And now he’s… here. Wherever the fuck “here” is. It’s sure as shit not Western Continent and it doesn’t sound anything like Strife’s drunken rambling about the Lifestream (oh, the things that come outta _him_ after that fourth tankard).

Good news: He’s still got his mag rod—like he would ever go anywhere without it—two back-up guns, plenty of ammunition and a decent amount of C4. And, more importantly, it’s warm enough for his suit jacket to dry.

Shitty news: He’s tried hailing Tseng on every frequency, but his comm is only giving back static. Worse, while he’s got his weapons, he can’t find _any_ of his materia or summons, which Tseng will _definitely_ and mercilessly kick his ass for.

Reno might not know where he is, but he has faith—in the deep-seeded fear kinda way—that Tseng already knows he's missing and that Tseng _will_ find him. Reno is going to be doing all the paperwork for months and that thought alone is enough to make him _very determined_ to recover all his materia before Tseng inevitably shows up. Or, at the very least, to make sure he has more materia than Rude.

After wandering around the immediate area for half an hour while waiting for his suit jacket to dry—and looting every treasure chest he comes across—Reno finally runs into somebody.

“Oh what the fuck,” he sighs.

“Somebody” is about his height and absurdly pretty—like, _Sephiroth_ -pretty—and well, _maybe_ his height, it’s kinda hard to tell, what with the _floating_. And the crop top. And the… monkey tail?

“What’s this?” Somebody asks, with the faintest accent, sounding like Rufus when he’s being even more of an obnoxious jackass than usual, “Another one of Cosmos’ peons?”

“I swear to Gaia,” Reno makes a pointed jab with his mag rod, “that if this is one of those fucking… Renaissance Fairs or whatever, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill Rude.”

Somebody laughs, pretty and high, and then throws a giant ball of white light at Reno’s head.

* * *

“You must be one of us, then,” a bruised and bleeding Kuja says contritely, twenty minutes later.

The white light—some kinda lightning-based spell—was hardly the hardest that Reno had ever been hit, and he shook it off like water off a dog. And he then proceeded to empty an entire clip into Kuja, who had hastily introduced himself after realizing he was maybe three more bullets at center mass from Game Over.

Reno had decided to hit him with his recently re-acquired Thundara anyway. The loss of a Phoenix Down was worth the satisfaction.

“Who the hell is us?”

“Those who were summoned for Chaos,” Kuja tells him, like it should be obvious.

Reno is really not diggin’ the way that sounds capitalized.

* * *

Rude wakes up choking, face down in a shallow puddle of water.

His suit is soaked through, which is… annoying. He probably shouldn’t have let Reno talk him into a fifteenth round. At least he still has his glasses.

Rude pushes himself up out of the puddle and almost brains the kid standing over him.

“Whoa!” the kid yelps, tripping backwards over his own feet.

Rude stares. The kid is wearing some kind of armor and has about five different weapons visibly strapped to his person. The kid is definitely not from Edge—he’d get jumped, looking like that. It’s not the weapons or the armor, but the _look_. The kid’s all soft pastel blues and accents and gems.

Nobody in Edge dresses like that, not even Strife and his motley crew. Nobody in Edge has enough wealth to dress that… gaudily, except Rufus. No one wears _armor_ like that anymore; it’s easier and more common to buy plainclothes with stats and boosts instead. This kid would stick out like a sore thumb, ripe for the mugging.

Thing is, Rude’s not in Edge. As far as he can see, there is only this shallow water—over ice, it looks like—and thick, green swirls of energy. Light.

“Where—?”

“This is Sanctuary,” the kid tells him, peering at him curiously, “I’m Bartz, who’re you?”

“Rude.”

“Whaddaya mean? I introduced myself and everything!”

It’s been a while since this has happened. It wasn’t funny the first time, and it’s still annoying as hell now. Reno would laugh, but Reno also still thinks dick jokes are the apex of modern humor.

“My name. Is Rude.”

“Oh,” Bartz ducks his head, and seconds later sticks out a lanky arm, “Nice to meet you!”

Rude shakes the kid’s hand. Decent grip and calluses means he probably knows how to _use_ all those weapons. But Rude can't get past how... _loud_ the kid's clothes are. He looks like the kinda person who not only names his attacks, but screams them out loud during battle. _Novice_.

“C’mon,” Bartz grins, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. In the distance, where the green swirls are the thickest, Rude can see people milling about, “I’ll introduce you to the others!”

‘The others’ are all largely unfamiliar and most of them look more like Bartz—over the top armor and decorative weapons—than he’s comfortable with. Is it one of those stupid Renaissance Fairs? He’s trying very hard not to think about how this strange place—the Sanctuary, apparently— _does not exist_.

He’s still very pointedly not thinking about that when Bartz brings over another group of people. This group, at least, has a few members that aren’t dressed like they think they’re going to defend an Elemental Crystal or something.

One of the men—older than Bartz, but otherwise strangely ageless—smiles at him.

“I’m Laguna,” he says. Rude nods; he’d seen the man use a giant laser gun to blast the hell out of some of those weird crystal manikin things.

Laguna gestures to his right and keeps going, “—And this is Lightning, Yuna, Kain, Vaan and that’s—”

"Tifa," Rude nods, bracing himself for whatever horribly embarrassing thing he did or said last night to be broadcast in front of a bunch of gaudily dressed strangers.

Instead of smirking, though, Tifa... perks up.

"Oh! Do we know each other?"

She looks earnest. And bright-eyed. Rude is officially suspicious and extremely uncomfortable.

"We're... friends?"

Is there a more concise word for ‘we have ethical disagreements but I’m a regular customer at your bar’? Friends is easier, and not entirely a lie. Tifa hasn’t punched him in weeks. That’s… friendly?

"You don't sound very sure," Tifa pouts. Pouts! Her entire bottom lip jutting out. Rude cannot think of anything he did to deserve this. Is it a prank? Is Strife lying in wait somewhere with that monstrous sword of his? Or worse yet, is Yuffie hiding somewhere with a _camera_?

The friendly-looking one, Laguna, cuts in, "Aha, not all of us remember too much about our home worlds. I'm sure she'll remember you soon."

Rude respects a man who can openly carry a giant laser gun, coordinate airstrikes with satellites and still remain the most approachable person in the immediate vicinity. He nods.

And then get quickly walks away.

He can hear the soft-eyed girl, Yuna, telling Tifa, "Just give him some time, okay?"

Let them think what they want. He needs to get the hell out of here.

* * *

“Lemme get this straight,” Reno starts, for the eighth time, “The gods of Discord and Harmony are stuck in this cycle of endless fighting, so instead of dukin’ it out themselves, they _summon_ a bunch of poor shmucks from a whole buncha different dimensions to fight _for_ them? And they created an _entirely new dimension_ , _**just**_ for this.”

“That is… close enough,” the Emperor—and holy fuck, these people have some pretentious-ass names—acquiesces, with a half-hearted hand gesture.

Reno never thought he would meet enough megalomaniacs to make _Sephiroth_ look tame. Sephiroth, who is here, on this weird floating throne rock, looking vaguely amused at everything, but somehow still not the weirdest jackass with stupid hair in a twenty food radius.

“You know what,” Reno claps his hands together, “Let’s put all that shit aside. My question is: _why the fuck am I here_?”

“Because Chaos wills it. You must have some skill to be selected as one of His Chosen.” The Emperor says “must” with the slightest hint of desperation in his voice. Jackass.

“No, no, no,” Reno waves a dismissive hand, “This whole thing is for, like, archenemies and heroes and villains and shit. I am very much none of those things. Send me back.”

“Send you _back_?” The Emperor sounds aghast and a little pissed off. Too fucking bad, Reno thinks. His Royal Prissiness can fuckin’ _deal with it_.

Kuja laughs. There is absolutely nothing funny about this situation and Reno is four seconds from going for the C4. Some of that must show on his face because Kuja laughs again, louder and more awkwardly. His hair is still singed at the edges.

"What Emperor _means_ is that he can't send you back."

"Now see, you were supposed to say somethin' that _didn't_ piss me off."

"It's the truth. Only the Warriors of Cosmos were promised a return. None of us know how to do it."

Reno shoots them both without looking, face cradled in one hand. He knows it’s overdramatic, but this whole entire shitshow is exasperating. What the hell. Just— _what the hell_.

Sephiroth still looks highly amused, the bastard.

* * *

“Oh _thank fuck_ ,” the redhead sighs as soon as he catches sight of Rude. Laguna can hardly stop his brows from raising. The redhead has to be one of Chaos’, seeing as he wasn’t at Sanctuary, but he and Rude are wearing the same dark blue suits and neither one of them looks like they’re getting ready to fight.

“Are they friends?” Yuna whispers. Vaan shrugs.

“Tseng?” Rude asks the redhead, although it doesn’t seem like much of a question.

“Ah fuck, I thought he was with _you_ ,” the redhead groans, falling to the ground in a pile of long limbs. Rude sits a moment after, crossing his legs.

“He ain’t here, then,” the redhead huffs, running one hand through all that hair, “Or else he woulda overhauled this whole damn thing.”

Rude grunts:

“Gods.”

“Yeah, I’m over it. I got no idea why I got recruited to Team Jackass. I swear, man, these fuckers make Sephiroth look like a Behemoth in the face of Omega Weapon. Especially this dickbag, calls himself The Emperor.”

Laguna only barely manages to choke back the startled laughter. The redhead shoots him a glance and a grin sly as anything before turning his attention back to Rude.

“Oh yeah, and Sephiroth’s here. Cloud, too, but I ain’t seen him yet.”

Rude hums and then dips his head, “Tifa, too.”

“See, that makes more sense. What the fuck did they need us for?”

Rude smirks—only for a second—and quips, “Collateral?”

The redhead laughs, but it sounds bitter.

“Always the way, huh?”

* * *

Reno inhales deep off his cigarette before he says, “I’m pretty sure we ain’t supposed to be here, actually.”

“This again?” Kuja sighs.

“Nah, this is different from me not givin’ a shit about this little showdown. Y’know, the whole time I been here, I ain’t seen not _one_ manikin of me or Rude.”

Kuja is silent.

“Perhaps you just haven’t met one yet?” he doesn’t sound like he believes it, even as he says it.

“You seen plenty of yourself, right? And all the others, including His Royal Prickness?”

Kuja quirks a small smile, but sobers quickly.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Reno. Even if you _aren’t_ supposed to be, you’re just as stranded as the rest of us. And only Cosmos’ warriors have been promised their return.”

“Yeah, see, that’s another thing. So, we get pulled here from our respective home worlds or whatever, mind-wiped and sent out to fight the good fight, and only the do-gooders get all these powers and promises? I call capital-B Bullshit.”

Kuja shrugs, but it’s stiff.

“Not much we can do, in the end.”

Reno scoffs, and flicks the but of his cigarette off into space. He watches as it gets pulled into one of those weird black orbs and disintegrates.

“Maybe not us,” he half-agrees.

C’mon, he thinks. _C’mon_ Tseng.

* * *

“How come you remember?” Cloud demands, the leather of his gloves creaking from how tight he’s gripping his giant fucking monster of a sword.

Ah, shit. Reno forgot Cloud has a _thing_ about memories.

“It’s not like I got a magic cure for it, man,” Reno mumbles, feeling kinda guilty and uncomfortable. Fuckin’ Cloud Strife and his goddamn _mountain_ of issues.

There’s the quiet _click_ of Cloud pulling his sword from its magnetic sheath. _Jeez_ —

“Look, I know you got trauma when it comes to memory shit, but _listen_. You really think Tseng would let his Turks run around without some kinda insurance? It’s all in the training. It’d take a hell of a lot more than some weird magic shit to fuck with my head.”

Cloud frowns, but sheathes his sword.

“Who’s Tseng?”

“My boss. Trust me, you’ll know him if you see him.”

“Turks,” Cloud mutters, eyes narrow, “You feel like bad news. Should I trust you?”

Reno grins.

“No way in hell, Blondie.”

* * *

* * *

“Reno, Rude. Report.”

Reno falls out of his stance easy as anything, mouth already open to complain, “And what in the hell took _you_ so long—”

The stranger—dressed in the same dark suit as Reno and Rude, but wearing it _way_ more severely—is a little browner than Reno but still paler than Rude, and has high cheekbones and sharp, narrow eyes and a red dilak in the middle of his forehead, dark hair swept back into a tail.

“Tseng,” Rude nods.

Reno is still ranting, “—woke up in the _goddamn_ snow and had to put up with these jackasses for _weeks_ and you just walk in here fresh as a goddamn _spring daisy_ —”

“Status?” the man—Tseng—asks Rude. The both of them seem to be ignoring Reno.

“It’s… complicated,” Rude demurs, which Laguna is pretty sure actually means, as Reno said not even two days ago, “it sounds really fucking stupid out loud”.

“Un-complicate it,” Tseng demands, unrelenting.

Rude sighs.

Reno is, somehow, _still_ going.

“—got _Gods_ dukin’ it out, and the whole thing is _stupid as hell_ and apparently once you’re in, you’re in for _good—_ ”

Tseng exhales slowly through his nose, eyes falling half-shut.

“Reno,” he says, and nothing else.

And Reno smoothly pulls a manila folder from _nowhere_ and continues without a hitch, “Strife, Lockhart and Sephiroth are all here, but I got shit on some of the other weirdos. And I ain’t kiddin’ about bein’ stuck here, damnit.”

“One thing at a time,” Tseng murmurs placatingly, taking the folder.

The efficiency of the whole thing, up to and including the smooth incorporation of Reno’s seemingly pointless rants, makes Laguna shiver. Even _Kiros_ isn’t that efficient.

(Wait, he thinks. Who’s Kiros?)

There’s a tense silence as Tseng, looking wholly composed, leafs through the folder. Laguna is amazed; where did Reno even _find_ office supplies? When did he even find the time to fill out what looks like _standardized reports_?

The snap of the file closing draws him out of his throughts. Tseng glances at Reno and Rude from under the hood of his brow.

“What’s this about misplaced assets?”

“Hey, I found most of mine,” Reno holds his hands up, shrugging his shoulders.

Rude, easily a foot taller than Tseng and nearly twice as broad, winces.

“The materia,” he mumbles, looking and sounding for all the world like a chastised little kid. Tseng raises an eyebrow. Rude looks away.

“The… chests,” he eventually mutters, still not meeting Tseng’s gaze.

“Like that, hm?” Tseng doesn’t seem angry; there’s a wry twist to his lips.

“Nothing for it, I suppose. I’m officially commandeering this operation.”

“Aw, _seriously_ ,” Reno pulls at his hair and looks skyward in open exasperation, “If I didn’t have _my_ materia, you woulda reamed my ass from here to Edge and _back_ —”

Reno gets started in on another rant, making pointed gestures in Tseng’s direction, even as Tseng begins to walk away, calm as you please. Reno dogs his steps, complaining loudly about favoritism. Rude walks behind them, silently.

Laguna exchanges a brief look with Lightning. What the _hell_ just happened?

Lightning shrugs. Then she follows them.

Laguna catches Yuna’s eyes. And then Tifa’s, and Vaan’s. Lightning still hasn’t said where Kain’s gone. They still haven't heard from the others.

They follow, too.

**Author's Note:**

> I was playing Dissidia 012 for the millionth time and had errant thoughts like, _Rude and Laguna would make a really badass team_ and _Tseng could spin circles around Kain's shitty plans_ and _Rude would be terrified of a Tifa who didn't scowl at him_ , and here we are. A more complete version of this fic would include Tseng casually ruining all of Kain's plans and just as casually taking over everything and leaving confused deities in his wake as he swept everyone back to their respective worlds. Tseng is the deus ex machina we deserve.
> 
> also, the summary is basically the battle intro cutscene. reno's battle dialogue is composed entirely of threats. 
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr!!](http://manymouths.tumblr.com)


End file.
